Oh for the grains to make such a new dame
I'd put myself and you to shame.
All it would take would be just one kiss,
presented in a concert hall,
set to a tune of irony and slapstick ballyhoo.
But alas, the stage was not made for two mutants like us--
two waddling wayfarers unnanounceable because of our nation's trade.
Perhaps if we met at the parade,
Getting lost in the marching band, composing and conducting our own irhythmic display,
We could whirl past them in a daze of unnacountable desire,
And, in your case, deserved retreat,
A duet of spectral enmity,
A divinity without harmony
For the band to use as its base.
The creation of confirmation is the job of two rested hearts,
But it is consummation that I am after,
And that can only be created with the fortitude of one.
And my fortitude, I'm afraid, is locked away in a different tube--
The one that moves from my arm to my wrist to my hand to my pen to this page here--this place that I've come to divine to be the only wall for my tears.